


The Moonbeams Kiss The Sea

by ShowMeAHero



Category: Frankenstein & Related Fandoms, Frankenstein - Mary Shelley
Genre: 1700s, Canon Era, Caught, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Making Out, Romance, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-21 22:51:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2485127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShowMeAHero/pseuds/ShowMeAHero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Henry wants Victor be his first kiss, and he think he has an idea of how to go about making it so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Moonbeams Kiss The Sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Izzy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izzy/gifts).



> Izzy was pretty upset after my last story, so she told me In all caps): "TO REPENT FOR YOUR EVILS, I WANT U TO WRITE CANON ERA FIRST KISS. MAKE IT AWKWARD AND CUTE AS POSSIBLE." Hopefully, I delivered.
> 
> Title taken from the poem "Love's Philosophy" by Percy Bysshe Shelley.

“Victor,” Henry spoke up softly. He and Victor had been sitting in silence for over an hour now, likely nearing two. Victor worked fervently on some drawing, his textbook open for reference; Henry was curled in the grand overstuffed armchair he himself had placed in the corner of Victor’s bedroom, a book of poetry open in his lap.

“Yes?” Victor did not raise his head from his textbook, his hand flying across paper as he detailed an anatomical diagram of the human leg on the parchment beside him. Seated at his desk as he was, his back was to Henry, but Henry knew he must be concentrating to such an extent that his tongue appeared between his lips, and his knuckles were going white on his pencil. He knew this without looking at him. He would know it in his sleep; he would know it in death. He knew Victor rather well, he liked to think.

“Have you read any of the work of John Dryden?” Henry asked, folding over the corner of the page. He fiddled with that edge, twisting it over and over in his hands. Victor shook his head no. “He has a way with words, I believe. I just read one of his poems which I had never read before.”

“You found a poem you have never read?” Victor asked incredulously, his head still bowed. “I must call a historian. Perhaps a journalist. This is news-worthy.”

“Oh, stop,” Henry laughed. He tipped his head back against the armchair. “I just wanted you to know, you needn’t tease me. It’s lovely.”

“Will you read it to me?” Victor requested. Henry’s heart began to race at the appeal; his palms were slick, his blood pulsing through his veins. He looked down at the poem under his hands.

“Of course,” Henry answered, and his voice betrayed none of his anxiety, a fact for which he was grateful. He cleared his throat. “ _‘I feed a flame within, which so torments me That it both pains my heart, and yet contains me: 'Tis such a pleasing smart, and I so love it, That I had rather die than once remove it.’_ ”

“This is very nice,” Victor murmured. “Very romantic. You ought to show it to Elizabeth. I imagine she would appreciate it.”

Henry nodded, his stomach filling with lead. He realized Victor could not see him. “I imagine she would.”

After a moment of silence, Victor raised his head slightly, turning a bit towards Henry. “Will you continue? Is there more?”

“There is more,” Henry confirmed. Victor nodded once before turning back to his work. “ _‘Yet he, for whom I grieve, shall never know it; My tongue does not betray, nor my eyes-’_ ”

“Pardon my interruption,” Victor said abruptly, turning completely ‘round in his chair, “but I thought you said this poet was a man?”

“He is,” Henry replied. “John Dryden.”

“He speaks of a man,” Victor stated. Henry studied Victor’s face for a moment before dropping his eyes back down to the page.

“Perhaps he writes as a woman,” Henry suggested. There was a beat of silence. “May I continue?”

“By all means,” Victor said. He did not turn back to his work. Henry tried to ignore his eyes on him; his gaze was intense, as it always was, burning and blue.

“ _‘Nor my eyes show it,’_ ” he continued. “ _‘Not a sigh, nor a tear, my pain discloses, But they fall silently, like dew on roses.’_ ”

Victor studied Henry as he read. Henry took great pains not to look up to him, to evaluate his reaction to the words of the poem. He forced himself to focus on the words swimming on the page, to continue reading.

“ _‘Thus, to prevent my Love from being cruel, My heart's the sacrifice, as 'tis the fuel;’_ ” Henry recited. Two of his fingers wore at the dog-eared corner of the page. “ _‘And while I suffer this to give him quiet, My faith rewards my love, though he deny it.’_ ”

“It’s very nice,” Victor commented, his voice sounding a little choked, when Henry paused for too long after that last line. Henry shook his head.

“It has not finished,” Henry informed him. “Save your thinking for the end. There is more to think on.”

Victor opened his mouth, then closed it. It seemed to Henry as though he may have moved closer, but Victor was waiting patiently for him to continue, and so he did.

“ _‘On his eyes will I gaze, and there delight me;’_ ” Henry read. He steeled himself, and looked up at Victor. He met his eyes. Victor stared back, and Henry could see the wheels turning in his brain, evident behind those brilliant eyes, which soon widened with realization. “ _‘While I conceal my love no frown can fright me.’_ ”

Victor was out of his chair now, standing in the middle space between his desk and the armchair in which where Henry sat. Henry ignored him, intent on finishing, intent on dismissing Victor’s behavior until he could process it. Victor seemed not to know what he was doing; how was Henry meant to know?

“ _‘To be more happy I dare not aspire,’_ ” Henry read on. He ran the hand not holding up the book over the fabric of his trousers over his thigh. “ _‘Nor can I fall more low, mounting no higher.’_ ” Henry hesitated after the last line of the poem, then shut the book. He finally looked up at Victor. “What do you think, Victor?”

“Henry,” Victor said at once. He still stood there, hovering in that undecided arena. “Why did you read me this poem?”

Henry considered his answer.

“Because it spoke to me,” he replied.

Victor had always been taller than Henry; his limbs were longer, and he was far more uncoordinated than his friend. His length betrayed him now, as he tripped over his long legs in his approach. He pulled the book from Henry’s hands and laid it down on the bookshelf beside Henry’s armchair.

“You have a way with words,” Victor mumbled. Henry stared up at him until Victor reached for his hands. He wrapped his large hands around Henry’s delicate, freckled wrists, and he tugged. Henry stood. Victor did not release his wrists. “Why do you not use them?”

“I thought I was,” Henry said, and he was smiling now. His heart was pounding, blood roaring in his ears, but he had to be a fool to mistake what was happening here. Victor’s touch was electrifying, sending a thrill through him, a jolt not unlike lightning.

“Use your own words,” Victor clarified, his tone urging and urgent. Henry shifted, turning his hands over and sliding them until their palms were pressed together. Victor tangled their fingers together stiffly, the movements unfamiliar to him. Henry pulled one hand free and lifted it, pushing it through the hair on the back of Victor’s head. Victor’s breath caught.

“How about… _‘To be more happy, I dare to aspire, Even if he is none the wiser,’_ ” Henry offered. Victor frowned, his brow furrowing.

“I would contest that,” Victor said. Henry pretended to think for a moment.

“Then, would you consider, _‘To be more happy, I dare to aspire, Because his love sets me on fire’_?” Henry proposed. Victor ran his thumb over Henry’s pulse point, over and over.

“I would consider it,” Victor finally agreed. “You are a beautiful poet.”

“Thank you,” Henry said softly, his head tipped back so that he could look into Victor’s eyes in their close proximity. “There is beauty in truth.”

Victor shut his eyes and dropped his head down. “Why did you not say something sooner?”

“Why didn’t you?” Henry countered. Victor opened his eyes and stared right into Henry’s.

“Understood.” Victor pushed his head back, just a little, into Henry’s hand where it still cupped the back of his skull. He clearly had no idea what he was doing; that much, Henry could tell. His right hand shook in Henry’s grasp; the left hovered in empty space. Henry reached down and moved his hand for him, settling it on Henry’s waist.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Victor confessed softly. Henry’s eyes flickered down to his lips.

“Just let me,” Henry replied. Victor nodded, the movement small. Henry dropped Victor’s hands and reached up, framing Victor’s face gently in his small, orange-speckled hands. Victor stared down at him, eyes wide. Henry stretched up onto his toes. Both of Victor’s hands came to settle on Henry’s waist, awkward and stiff. Henry pushed their mouths together, shutting his eyes and ending the kiss quickly. His heart was surging into his throat as he withdrew, and his hands trembled; he could hardly stand, and, when he opened his eyes, Victor was staring at him again, his cheeks flushed red. Victor swallowed.

“I liked that,” Victor admitted. Henry took a shaky breath.

“Me, too.” Henry pushed up again, shoving his lips into Victor’s. He threw his arms around Victor’s neck, pulling him down to his height. Victor’s arms flailed as he lost his balance and rapidly regained it. He hunched over to return the kiss. Henry opened their mouths, turned his head slightly, and Victor sighed, relaxing into the kiss. His hands tangled in Henry’s orange hair before they found the small of his back. Acting on pure instinct, it seemed, Victor jerked him close until Henry’s body was curved to his. Henry was abruptly hungry, desiring as much of Victor as he could get, nineteen years’ worth of suppressed emotion all surging to the surface at once. Victor seemed to sense this, and he hooked his hands under Henry’s thighs and lifted him up.

Henry wrapped his legs around Victor’s waist and kissed him harder, kissed him for all he was worth; his hands trailed down Victor’s back, grabbing at the fabric of his shirt every now and then. Victor’s hands were tight on Henry’s thighs, then tight on his behind when he adjusted his grip. Henry moaned into his mouth when he moved, and Victor’s hold slipped a little.

Elizabeth never knocked on the door. She was a good friend of theirs, close like a sister; she had no reason to, for they had never been doing anything she was not meant to see before today. She pushed open the door and began speaking immediately, without even looking to them, as was her way.

“I do hope supper here tonight is something interesting, because I am _bored_ of-” Elizabeth began, her words abruptly cutting off when she caught sight of them. Victor immediately released Henry, forcing him scramble to get his legs under him before he fell to the ground. He tripped backwards, and Victor reached out and grabbed his shoulder, steadying him.

“Elizabeth, please,” Henry pleaded as he turned away from Victor. He unsure of what to say to her, how to continue that entreaty. Please what? Please tell no one? Please do not hate us? “ _Please-_ ”

“Henry, calm down,” Elizabeth interrupted, shutting the door to Victor’s bedroom. “I won’t tell a soul, you have my word. Honestly, I’m rather surprised that this took as long as it did.”

Victor abruptly sat down heavily in the armchair Henry had so recently vacated, dropping his head between his knees. He took deep breaths, his chest heaving, and Elizabeth crossed the room to him, concern creasing her brow.

“Too much excitement for one day, I’d say,” Elizabeth commented, and Victor nodded weakly. She rubbed his back in soothing circles and turned her attention back to Henry, who stood still, his hands half-raised, his expression both shocked and confused. “Henry, _be calm_. Sit down, if you must.”

“No one was meant to know,” Henry said. Elizabeth raised an eyebrow.

“Then lock the door,” Elizabeth suggested. “Henry, I will not tell a soul, I promise you. I would never do such a thing.” She dropped her head down to look into Victor’s downturned face. “Are you quite alright?”

Victor nodded, his hands rubbing anxiously at his shins. Henry dropped down to his knees beside him. Victor’s eyes flickered to look at him.

“I apologize for startling you,” Elizabeth said, and Victor’s cheeks began to turn red once again. He jerked up into a proper sitting position; Elizabeth, surprised, sat back on her haunches, her dress flowing around her.

“Elizabeth, you are a young girl,” Victor exclaimed, standing abruptly. Elizabeth frowned; she and Henry followed his jerking movements with their eyes. “You are certainly not meant to see such things! I apologize for-”

“Victor, you, too, must be calm,” Elizabeth insisted. She stood, dusting off her dress. Henry stood, as well, straightening out and attempting to smooth down his hair. His fingers caught futilely in the knots that Victor had created, and he dropped his hands. “Do not worry for my modesty or my sensibilities. I’m sure I’ll survive this.”

There was a moment of silence, filled with awkwardness and tension. Henry tucked his shirt back into his trousers.

“What were you saying?” Henry spoke up at last. Both Elizabeth’s and Victor’s heads snapped around to look at him, the both of them startled out of the silence. “Elizabeth? About supper?”

“Oh!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “Yes. I was curious as to whether or not you knew what supper was going to be.” She glanced from Victor to Henry, then back again. “I suppose I’ll simply have to ask Justine or your mother. Carry about your business. I will come get you for supper personally.”

“Thank you,” Henry said, the tension falling out of his shoulders. He moved forward, kissing Elizabeth on the cheek and seeing her out. When the door was finally shut - and locked, on Elizabeth’s insistence - behind her, Henry took a deep, steadying breath, then turned.

To his surprise, Victor was already looking at him, his gaze as intense as ever. The room was tense and silent as Henry walked to him, his steps slow and deliberate. When he was near enough to touch, Henry did not, instead simply stopping and waiting for Victor to speak.

Victor studied his face, his eyes flicking back and forth as they looked over his features. It seemed like years that they stood there in absolute quiet. At last, Victor spoke, saying:

“I hope I have not embarrassed you.”

Henry raised a light eyebrow. “I apologize for _your_ embarrassment.”

Victor’s eyes widened slightly. “No, Clerval - _Henry_. You misunderstand. There is no embarrassment on my part. Well,” he amended, “not in the act itself. Perhaps in getting caught, yes. But never in the act.”

Henry grinned, his front teeth slightly crooked. “I withdraw my apology.”

The room was silent again. Victor stepped forward hesitantly, his hands reaching up to hover, unsure, near Henry’s hips. Henry moved into his grasp, waiting until Victor felt secure enough to place his hands on Henry’s sides. Henry wound his arms around Victor’s neck, tipping his own head back and observing Victor’s minute expressions as they flickered across his face.

“ _‘I feed a flame within,’_ ” Henry quoted softly, and Victor’s lips twitched up into a smile.

“By all means,” Victor replied. “Feed the flame.”

Henry stretched up, then stopped, their mouths a hair’s breadth apart. “I do not believe there is a poem accurate to how I feel now.”

“Then write it,” Victor suggested, pressing their noses together. “Write a poem for me.”

“ _‘What are all these kissings worth, If thou kiss not me?’_ ” Henry murmured. Victor raised an eyebrow.

“That’s Shelley,” Victor commented, Henry threw his head back and laughed. Victor pressed his lips to his neck.

“You have been listening,” Henry teased. Victor pulled Henry’s face back to his and proceeded to kiss him breathless.

“To you?” Victor replied when he withdrew, leaving Henry red-faced and short of breath. “Always.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> The first poem is ['Hidden Flame', by John Dryden](http://www.poetry-archive.com/d/hidden_flame.html), and the second poem is ['Love's Philosophy', by Percy Bysshe Shelley](http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/love-s-philosophy/). Meta, I know.
> 
> You can follow me on Twitter at [@nicoIodeon](https://twitter.com/nicoIodeon) or on Tumblr at [andillwriteyouatragedy](http://andillwriteyouatragedy.tumblr.com/).


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